


eternity is enough for...

by davesstrand



Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, M/M, Psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davesstrand/pseuds/davesstrand
Summary: The night is young. Eternity will be enough to wait.
Relationships: Dave Gahan/Martin Gore
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	eternity is enough for...

Dave is disgusted to see his reflection in the mirror every day. The same brown eyes seem to him now gray and lifeless for the rest of his existence, and the lights that once lit them have long since gone out.

He hates that mirror. He hates his reflection in it. But is this mirror the source of all his troubles? It would be reasonable to assume that it is not. But the feeling of hopelessness is not even half a centimeter away from Dave: it is always behind him, it is filled with an already hazy mind.

Raging chaos in his head. His thoughts are ashes. He himself has long since sunk into oblivion.

He is sick of his own voice. It seems to Dave that the universe itself is now empty. Empty just as empty as his soul.

The brain, while still able to function and send signals, is mercilessly hit by alcohol. Tart, settling an unprecedented bitterness on the tip of the tongue — it is more than ever now palpable. And he relishes this taste, and does not care that when he wakes up at dawn, he will loudly curse the universe. But no one will hear his screams — the granite wall that he has built around himself will not let any sound pass through. Nor will it be possible to go beyond it.

He would suffocate in this colorless, formless vacuum. Is there any brave living soul who will be able to light the star again, so that it does not burn out completely? This is out of the question: everything gradually undergoes a period of its own decomposition into atoms. Everyone will find their own ways to self-destruction. And there is no guarantee of recovery.

If you try to make the pieces together, no matter how hard you try, nothing will come out. You will see the whole picture at the moment when expectations start to seem unnecessary; at the moment when you would feel that you yourself are slowly but surely turning into fragments — and so it will continue, continue and continue.

You will get tired of the eternal change of pictures, from the already permanent déjà vu — you will be lost in a heap of contradictions and your own thoughts before you realize that you are already stuck in it. And not everyone is able to emerge from this swamp. Not everyone.

Dave feels that something is missing. As if the void in him can also be filled — isn't this ridiculous? Alas, no one dares to laugh at human tragedies.

No one laughs, but it is always funny to him alone. It has always been so. This is the natural order of things in his life.

_"We're going straight to the bottom," Martin said one day, usually calm and, as it seemed to Dave exactly at that time, distant._

_"We've been there for a long time," Dave says in a low, indifferent voice, casually stubbing out his cigarette on the grass, which was beginning to slowly wither as it touched the burning ash. "It's just that none of us want to see it."_

But it seems that only Dave has illusions of a happy future. Maybe he is happy to deceive himself with the idea that today everything is terrible, and tomorrow it will be even more terrible? The picture of reality is even worse: here is recklessness, lack of morality and ethics; here is a gray mass of people who are very similar to each other, but the difference is only in names and external data.

God created a gray, empty, useless world. It may have had colors originally, but everything has a way of fading. And it got to Dave, too.

_"You know, Mart, I haven't been able to sleep lately," Dave says, listening to the measured breathing of the man on the other side of the phone. "I don't know if there is the way out of it. I'm even trying to lie to myself. But we both know it's all nonsense, right?"_

_"Is that all you wanted to tell me?" Martin was cold, still aloof and insufferable; at first Dave was tired of the frequent outbursts of gratuitous anger of their permanent lyricist, and then Martin was able to find something to push — Dave forgets about self-control at the moment when a questionable substance passes through his veins._

_"No, not yet", Dave is drunk, hopelessly drunk; when it comes to Martin, he can't resist the temptation to get drunk. "If I had admitted it earlier, things could be different now."_

_"How? What is your stupid head full of?" Martin knows everything, or rather, he knew it from the beginning, but Dave is a rare, blind idiot._

_"It's filled with air," Dave replies dryly and briefly. "And with you."_

_"I have to interrupt this pointless dialogue," and after that Dave doesn't hear a word._

...and then Dave dissolves, completely disintegrating into atoms, when he puts in another dose of heroin — it's not exactly desirable, but still capable of plunging him into a dream world for at least a pathetic moment — for eternity. And for tonight, eternity will be more than enough.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Dave hates himself for waiting for Martin.

He is waiting for a call from which he can extract only condemnation. This would be the maximum due to the acutely felt weakness. And, above all, there will no pity for. Dave doesn't need it at all.

Dave is already an ash. His voice is on the verge of breaking. The risk that he may soon lose it increases to seventy percent, and the remaining thirty should not be trusted.

It's time to stop burning one's boats. It's time to stop building walls.

But everything that a mortal hand can reach turns to dust, because transience is the main law of the universe and its inhabitants.

Dave is waiting for Martin. He humbly waits for the moment when he will be able to kiss him, to hold his hand absurdly, to tell about what is painful, about which he is silent to others and sometimes even to himself.

Dave needs Martin as much as a man needs water and air: you can't live without one in the hot deserts, and you can't live without the other for a minute.

Dave is waiting for him. Dave needs him. But Martin doesn't need him in return.

His feeling, too, had turned to ash — it's just the faded filter of a cigarette.

Dave is irrevocably drunk, and deep down he is too young and far from reality, which now seems completely weightless. Is this not the correct perception? After all, the edges of the reality are blurred, as well as the ways to comprehend something great and directly create the great.

It's important for him to hear Martin's voice tonight.

...and he hears it.

"You're not sleeping, right?" discontented, calmly and abominably desirable voice again.

"My head is still filled with air and you. Nothing changes, Mart," Dave responds apathetically.

"Always young and always drunk Dave Gahan, to whom I am used," Martin pauses awkwardly, breathing evenly, and Dave listens to his breathing. "And without whom I can't imagine anything from now on."

"If you were here, I'd even kiss you," Dave says dreamily, exhaling. "But you're not here, and I can't kiss you."

"I promise you will do it someday, Dave, I promise," and then Dave paid no attention to the words — they, too, are ashes, and they, too, are destined to perpetuate as the dawn will come. "And will you wait for me, David?" Martin asks quietly.

"I will," he hesitates before finishing his words. "Whatever it would take."

The night is young. Eternity will be enough to wait.

And then Dave dissolves —


End file.
